


The Beauty and the Beast

by CCNilesBabcock



Category: The Nanny
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 01:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17111909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNilesBabcock/pseuds/CCNilesBabcock
Summary: It is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure that we welcome you tonight. And now we invite you to relax, let us pull up a chair as TheCrownedLioness and I proudly present a "Beauty and The Beast" AU, where a certain brainy Blonde and a blue-eyed beast will learn that appearances can be deceiving, for beauty is found on the inside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After having watched the live action version of “The Beauty and The Beast” my bestie and I have decided to create our own little AU, where a certain brainy Blonde and a blue-eyed beast will learn that appearances can be deceiving, for beauty is found within. Just to let you know, we are working with the movie’s script since we've decided to use some of the scenes and dialogues in our story (adapted ofc). Nothing belongs to us, we just borrowed these wonderful characters for a little while.  
> Enjoy!  
> H&L

**_ Prologue _ **

The castle was quiet that time of night. A lot of the servants had retired for the evening, or were at least down in the kitchens finishing up the last of the cleaning from the night's dinner. A few were still hurrying along the lower corridors, and bowed or curtsied as he passed, bidding them goodnight, but he was otherwise by himself. ­

C.C. had retired early, claiming fatigue, and left him to walk alone. He didn't mind so much, even if it was slightly lonely and made him reminiscent of the years spent wandering the halls by himself. Her tiredness was more important. There would be other occasions for romantic walks in the gardens. Other occasions for more romantic things than just walking in the gardens, too...

He was thankful the corridor was empty, otherwise the smile on his face at the thought of his wife in his arms might have produced strange looks in others. It made him hurry towards their rooms, too. He wanted to be next to her as soon as possible; even if she was too tired for what he was thinking about, just being by her side made him feel good, and helped him to sleep.

He could see the door just ahead, and almost couldn't contain his happiness as he picked up his pace to turn the handle...

He was surprised, upon opening the door and stepping inside, to find C.C. sat before the room's fireplace, their little Amelia in her arms. Before her, there were two prams ­– one Amelia's, the other new and unfamiliar. ­C.C. beamed at him as he entered, to which he almost considered raising an eyebrow. She didn't seem exhausted at all, and where had this new pram come from?

"Ordered another pram for our little one, my love?" he asked. "I didn't think she'd yet worn out the one we currently have."

"No she hasn't," his wife said, giving him a sort of playful smile. "Actually her pram is still in perfect conditions."

He could sense she was up to something both by her tone and by her playful demeanour, which was somewhat odd considering how worn out she’d appeared during dinner. Truth to be told, he’d noticed she had been particularly fatigued as of late, but she’d dismissed his concerns claiming that it was nothing. Be that as it may, he’d decided to call the royal physician if she continued feeling unwell, but judging by her spirited moods, it wasn’t going to be necessary! The colour which so often fled her face, had returned and she hadn’t looked so lively and full of energy in months. 

Although his wife had always favoured wearing slightly more racy nightwear in the privacy of their chambers, tonight she had chosen to use a particularly loose and demure nightgown, which was a bit of an oddity as well. He wasn’t about to mention it, though; she could be wearing a sack of potatoes and she’d still be the most beautiful woman on the face of this Earth.

"Hm,” he affected a pensive look, “then I am afraid I have to ask you; why are we in need of a new pram?"

She didn't reply immediately. Instead, she gestured for him to close the door and then, once it was closed, for him to come sit by her side. Their one year old was safely snuggled in her arms and fast asleep – a sight that he still thanked the heavens for. Once, he had believed that he would never have a family of his own, but the wonderful woman sat in front of him had turned the impossible into his beautiful reality.

In order to be more comfortable, he toed off his shoes and discarded his cutaway tailored coat, waistcoat, stockings and britches. Now he was only clad in his underwear and undress shirt. He’d been craving to do this for hours, and the prospect of a tranquil evening with his wife filled him with a warm sense of belonging that he’d come to cherish. Married life was truly blissful, and it suited him well.

So, now properly dressed for a quiet evening, he leisurely walked over to his wife and sat by her side before draping an arm around her.

"Tell me, lover, what are prams for?" she asked as she nestled into him, not giving him time to ask anything else after he’d settled down.  

"Why, for small children to sleep in them, of course!" he replied amusedly.  

"So, if we have two prams and one of them belongs to our daughter, who do you think the second one belongs to?"

There was a momentary blip in the conversation and his eyebrows knitted in confusion. What on Earth was she talking about? They only had one child, so how could he know who was the owner of that second pra-

_Oh...!_

_Right._

He couldn’t help noticing the fastening of his heartbeat and his deep intake of air when realisation finally washed over him. His whole body was trembling and time seemed to have slowed down almost to a standstill. Could she really be...?

Almost as if she'd been reading his mind, C.C. reached out for his hand and guided it to her abdomen, where he felt the outline of a small (but clearly distinguishable) bump lying just underneath the fabric of her nightgown. He began to laugh, softly and breathlessly – it was a sound that even to him spoke volumes of his wonder, and excitement.

He looked between her abdomen and her shining eyes, triumph and happiness written all over her face.

"You...you really mean-"

She nodded and answered before he could say any more, "That's right. There's going to be another little prince or princess running around this castle!"

Another little prince or princess! Their two children, to hold and adore...The very thought made tears spring to his eyes, and he closed the gap between their lips to kiss his wife, pouring into it all the love and affection he could possibly muster.

He pulled away and used the arm around her to hug her tighter, "I love you, so very much..."

"I love you too," she murmured in reply, looking between him, their still-sleeping eldest daughter, and the place where he had felt her bump. "We all do."

He laughed again, tears still leaking from his bright blue eyes. The eyes she had fallen in love with, even when they’d been hidden in the body of a beast. Back then, he'd thought himself to be unlovable and incapable of loving someone back, but not only had she proved him wrong, but she'd also made him the happiest man on this Earth in the process.

"It seems our Petite Fleur will have a little brother and sister in...?"

"Six months," she completed. "I knew something was up when I missed my period for two consecutive months, but I decided to wait one extra month before telling you, just to be cautious."

Well, it sounded like his wife to be cautious. In any case, he was grateful for the wonderful fact that she was pregnant once again. He wanted to have as many children as possible with her, and they had the time, the money, the inclination and the room to raise them all. He was determined to be the best father he could be, even if the ghost of his own father still haunted him, like a menacing shadow hanging over him. He didn’t want to repeat his mistakes, but as his wife so often reminded him, he wasn’t his father – he’d changed.

"You are wonderful," he said and kissed her on the lips. "Absolutely wonderful!"

“And so are you,” C.C. replied, kissing him back eagerly.

However, all the affection going on in the room woke a now fussy Amelia up, and she was quick to make her discomfort known in the form of small whimpers.

"Oh... no, Petite Fleur, don't you cry," Niles said, pulling away from C.C. to take his eldest – _eldest!_ – child in his arms. "Papa is here."

"We are trying to get her to sleep, not to cry harder," his wife teased.

"Oh, hush," he pretended to scold as he bounced the little girl. But then he feigned relenting. "I'm allowing you that one, because you just gave me the best news a man could ever receive."

He turned the little princess around so she was sat facing C.C. on his knee, continuing to jog it up and down to make her giggle.

And giggle she did – their little one wasn't an unhappy child, unless she was woken abruptly or if she was hurt, and the two parents loved hearing the sound of her playing happily.

"You're going to be a big sister, Petite Fleur," he crooned, kissing the curls on the top of her head. "You're going to have someone to play with, and who'll love you like your Mama and Papa do..."

C.C. watched the scene in front of her with a smile; she adored her husband, and their daughter and unborn child. She knew that they'd love however many children they had, and that family time would be no less precious – no less her favourite time – however many people were there.

But it was late, and their little princess did need to be put to bed.

"And Mama has something very special for you," she half-whispered, wiggling one of Amelia's feet with a finger and thumb. "A very special bedtime story, all about love, and princes and princesses, and a very special, very important flower."

Niles quirked an eyebrow at her words. He knew which story she was talking about, but he had never thought she'd use it as a bedtime story for one of their children. He supposed there was no harm in them knowing – sooner or later, they'd find out about how they’d fallen in love – but he couldn't help feeling somewhat... surprised. They always told their child a story before putting her to bed, but they’d never told her about their very own fairy-tale.

He wasn't about to let his uneasiness come in the way of his wife’s storytelling, though. Instead, he moved closer to her and placed their baby on his lap as he wrapped an arm around his wife.

"Once upon a time, in the hidden heart of France, a handsome young prince lived in a beautiful castle," C.C. began in a soft, yet enthralling, voice.

It was almost funny to see just how interested Amelia was in her mother’s words, even if the child was still too young to understand what was being told to her. He also knew that the attention span of a toddler wasn’t exactly long, but his wife had always had a talent to catch everyone's attention without even trying, and their child clearly was not an exception.

"Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was selfish and unkind," she continued, "He taxed the village to fill his castle with the most beautiful objects. And his parties with the most beautiful people. Then one night an unexpected intruder arrived at the castle, seeking shelter from the bitter storm. As a gift, she offered the prince, a single rose."

C.C.’s voice suddenly became grave and mysterious, "Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince turned the woman away. But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within. When he dismissed her again, the old woman's outward appearance melted away, to reveal a beautiful enchantress."

Niles pursed his lips, he remembered this part as if it had happened yesterday.

But he still wasn't going to interrupt, even if he was ashamed of how he had behaved before. He knew it was in the past, and wasn't going to let it affect their present. Besides, his wife's voice (not just when telling stories) was one he could never bring himself to speak over.

"The prince begged for forgiveness," she continued, a growing tension in her tone. "But it was too late."

Even though he knew all of this, Niles still felt his heart sink. Not just because it was his story, but because C.C. had such a talent at making the words come to life. It made listening so easy, it was almost impossible not to.

"For she had seen that there was no love in his heart," she looked up at Niles, and automatically moved as close as she could possibly get to him. "As punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast, and placed a powerful spell on the castle and all who lived there."

A _very powerful spell_ , Niles thought, continuing to listen.

"As days bled into years, the prince and his servants were forgotten by the world," C.C. stroked her daughter's hair, touching the tips of her fingers against her cheeks. "For the enchantress had erased all memory of them, from the minds of the people they loved."

Niles knew exactly what was coming next, and he could only remain transfixed, with hope – a hope he knew had already come to pass, really – swelling in his heart.

His wife really did have a gift at this.

"But the rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose. If he could learn to love another, and earn their love in return by the time the last petal fell, the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time."

Niles couldn’t help the small sigh that left his lips. Sometimes, when he looked back on his days as a beast, he was invaded by an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Even if he now was a father and happily married man, he was still affected by the scars left by his lonely years as a beast.

"As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope. For who could ever learn to love a beast?" he completed, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

There was a short silence which C.C. used to hold him close and to stroke his chest with her bejewelled hand – she knew her touch soothed him. 

"But this is not a sad story," she continued, kissing his neck. "Many years later, a beacon of hope arrived to a small provincial town not far away from the prince's castle. This beacon of hope happened to be a young maiden, who was seen as a bit of an oddball by the townsfolk. They would say she was strange and that she always had her head up on some cloud."

"But what they didn't know," Niles interrupted, entwining their hands and smiling down at his wife, who had laid her head on his shoulder. "Was that she was a woman far ahead of her time..."


	2. Chapter 2

**_ Chapter 1 _ **

**__ **

If there was something that could be said about the village of Villeneuve, was that it was a safe and quiet place. Every morning was just the same – everyone would do the same thing, say the same things, comment on the same things… basically, life was centred around an unchanging and simple routine. Almost everyone in the town liked having this monotonous and predictable life, but that wasn’t the case of Chastity-Claire Babcock.

Although she’d lived there for fifteen years and was considered to be the most beautiful woman in town, she’d never really learnt to fit in. This had never been a matter for concern in her eyes, either; she had learnt that it was easier if she just kept to herself. And how, you might ask, had the most beautiful woman in town become a bit of an outcast?  Ah, well, as it so happened, this young woman was exceptional in many ways. Too exceptional for such a small (minded) village.  

One of her most notorious peculiarities was her love for books – and so was the fact that she was the only literate woman in town, of course.

"Thank you for the book, Père!" Claire said as she walked towards the exit of the small library that her good friend, Père Robert, kindly allowed her to browse at her leisure. You see, women weren’t allowed into the town’s library, for the schoolmaster didn’t take kindly to women getting an education. Because educated women might get ideas or even, God forbid, start _thinking_!

 _Positively sinful,_ don’t you think?

Luckily enough, Père Robert didn’t agree with such nonsense and his immense library was open to everyone, regardless of their sex, race, religion or age.

"I promise to bring it back next week!" the blonde said, admiring the book she’d chosen.

"I'm sure you'll be through it before then, Mademoiselle Claire," Père Robert joked in return from his shelves.

"I might re-read it, you don't know for sure," Claire grinned mischievously from the doorway.

Robert feigned looking unimpressed, "I'm sure I can guess. But I have your word to bring it back next week, so don't re-read it too many times!"

Claire laughed, and waved back as he dismissed her with one flicked motion of his wrist, and she left the library clutching her newest find to her chest. But it wasn't there for long – she had to open it and start reading!

Well, reading from where she'd left off, anyway. She hadn't been able to help herself, going beyond the first few pages right there at the bookshelf. She'd only stopped to say that she was going to take the book. But it was all worth it. It was a lovely old fairy-tale – one she had read several times before in different places – and returning to it was as comforting as returning to her own bed to rest at night.

Then again, most books were like that for her.

So, her eyes focused on the words of the open book as she made her way down the street, she kept on reading as she set off for home. She was well aware of the snide remarks and mocking comments that the townspeople made about her whenever she deigned to show her face in town. They were always the same – that a young woman as pretty as her should be worried about getting a husband rather than about what book she’d read next; that she was odd; that she was a puzzlement…

Indeed, she was too different from them, and in her town, different was tantamount to dangerous.  

But Claire couldn’t deny what she was, nor she desired to do so. She’d been born into a rich bourgeois family, and she’d spent the first five years of her life in Paris, going from soirée to soirée and rubbing shoulders with powerful members of the French elite. But with the advent of the plague, her family had encountered only financial ruin and the loss Claire’s mother.

In an attempt to protect them from the plague that had taken their mother, her father had decided to leave their fortune and possessions behind and moved what was left of the family to the safety of the countryside. For many years, it had been just Claire, her older sister Danielle and their father, but then Danielle had gotten married and moved back to Paris with her husband while Claire and Stewart had stayed behind in Villeneuve.

She’d craved to follow in her sister´s footsteps, but at the same time she knew she couldn’t leave her father alone, and she there was no point in suggesting moving back to Paris. He would never agree to it. The city brought back too many bad memories…

"Claire!" a very familiar voice called from behind her, interrupting her musings.

C.C. swallowed back a groan and stepped up the pace, all while pretending she hadn't heard Chandler’s voice calling for her. For some reason the foolish oaf had set his mind in getting her to marry him! They had absolutely nothing in common, and she’d turned him down on many an occasion before, but that didn’t seem to deter him…

She still couldn't believe that Chandler Graves, of all people, was interested in her!

Others in the village had, not so quietly, suggested that perhaps she should just marry him. He was the wealthiest man in the village – so much so that he could afford to do no work and spend all his time hunting – and he was probably the most handsome, too.

But that didn't matter to Claire. He was the last man she would ever marry, that much was certain.

They were too different, and shared no interests.

But that didn't seem to matter to him, as he also picked up his pace and quickly dodged in front of her, cutting her off. She noticed was holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand…

"Good morning, Claire!" he took a side step as she attempted to move around him, and ducked his head to look at her book, which she had at last lowered when she'd figured out he wasn't going away. "Wonderful book you have there!"

Claire quirked an eyebrow. This would be interesting – Chandler attempting intelligent conversation!

"Have you read it?" she asked, curious.

Chandler pulled a face which suggested he was trying to appear nonchalant, but underneath he was struggling.

"Well, not that one..." he admitted, quickly rubbing the back of his neck. "But you know, books...” for a moment he looked a bit at loss, but he quickly recovered by offering her the bouquet of flowers he’d been carrying. “For your dinner table."

She wondered if something had struck him then, because he straightened up with a new sense of purpose and confidence in his voice. However, she didn’t take his flowers, but it didn’t seem to bother him…

"Shall I join you, this evening?" he asked, a hint of something deep in his voice which made Claire's skin crawl unpleasantly.

She snapped her books shut and held it to her chest again, "Sorry, not this evening."

The confidence was replaced by surprise, "Busy?"

She pursed her lips.

"No," she said, before calmly walking away.

She tried not to cringe when she heard him saying to Lefou, his ever-loyal sidekick, that " _the ones that play hard to get are always the sweetest preys_ ".

She wasn't an animal to be hunted, and she'd rather be dead than be Madame Chandler.

But that didn't matter, at least not now. She had to get back home quickly for her father needed her. He would be leaving for Paris in only a few hours, and she had to be there to help him prepare for his trip.

As usual, she found him working on one of his music boxes, which he sold to rich people in Paris so as to have some extra money. His latest creation was a beautiful music box that played the lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was a baby. It was truly beautiful, and it depicted a small family of four sat by the fire, immersed in a sort of domestic bliss.

"It's beautiful, Papa," she said, coming to hug him from behind and startling him a little.

"Claire!" Stewart said, turning his head sideways to look at her over his shoulder. "Did you get your book?"

"I did," she sighed, feeling oddly downcast. "But, Papa, do you think I am odd?"

Stewart frowned, "My daughter, odd? Where did you get an idea like that?"

Claire shrugged, and leaned against a workbench he wasn't using.

"I don't know. People talk. This is a small village, you know."

Stewart put down the box and his tools, and straightened to look at her, "Small-minded, as well."

He approached her, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking at her with a kind of pride and straightforwardness that she had come to expect from him.

"But small also means safe," he told her. There was a pause, and suddenly his smile grew a little bit wider. "Even back in Paris, I knew a girl like you who was so...ahead of her time. So different. People mocked her, until the day they all found themselves imitating her."

Claire couldn't help but return his look; he always got like this whenever he spoke of her mother. And knowing everything about her was something that Claire strove to achieve. She had been so small when her mother had been taken from them, all the information she could get was a blessing.

So, as her father turned to begin packing up his merchandise to take to the market, she followed him eagerly.

"Please, just tell me one more thing about her."

Stewart's movements came to a halt, almost as if her question had put him off balance. Her mother was a topic that he didn't like to discuss, and his unwillingness to talk about her had resulted in Claire barely remembering anything about the short years when she’d had a mother.

Granted, she knew the basics about her – that her mother had been the most beautiful woman her father had ever seen, that she was an inventor and the first woman in her family to study, and that she had died of the pest shortly after Claire's fifth birthday.

But still... with every day that went past, the memory of her mother continued to slip through her fingers like sand, getting lost forever. _Fading._ And she was afraid of this – afraid of forgetting her. Her father's reticence, in a sense, only made worsened her fears –  she didn't have many substantial memories to hold onto, and although she understood her father’s pain, she didn't want her mother to become but a mere stranger to her. 

"Please," Claire cut into the lull and gently placed an arm around her father's shoulders. "Please, Papa, I... I want to... I mean, I’d love to... well... know more about who she was."

Her father knew better than to dismiss her pleas. He knew that his child wanted to know more about woman that had borne her, but it was still too painful to talk about her. When Beatrice died, his whole world had come apart at the seams. It had cost him his fortune and status, but he'd held it together for his children, whom he’d gotten to safety by running away to the countryside.

He couldn’t deny he’d always had a sort of weak spot for his youngest child. She was not only alike to him in character, but she was also the spitting image of her mother – same height, golden curls, sharp and feminine features and a pair of dazzling sapphire eyes. She was the embodiment of the love he’d shared with Beatrice, but the physical resemblance to her mother had only strengthened his desire to shield Claire from the dangers of the world. She was his little treasure, and he wasn't going to lose her like he'd lost his Beatrice.

But, at the same time, how could he deny her anything? Especially this! Yes, Beatrice had been his beloved wife, but she’d been Claire’s mother as well, and as such, Claire deserved to know more about her, even if it pained him to mention her. He had to be strong and open up. After all, he'd done so on other occasions, such as when he'd told Claire about her mother always asking him for a rose whenever he went to the market, or whenever he'd sung Beatrice’s lullaby to her children.

"Alright," he sighed, turning to face his daughter. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, almost as if needing proof that she was there, with him. "Your mother... well... she liked the wintertime. Back when we had the big house in Paris, we would always go for long walks in the gardens, even when she was too tired or too pregnant to do so. She always said that... that it gave her peace of mind and that it made you happy when you were in her belly, for you kicked and moved around inside her whenever we went out, almost as if letting us know just how much you enjoyed our walks."

Claire smiled, feeling like she could almost remember it herself, even if that wasn't really possible.

There, in her mind's eye, she could see it; a younger version of her father, arm in arm with a woman who bore the most striking resemblance to her, in a beautiful garden, admiring the beautiful flowers and occasionally stopping to stroke her rounded, pregnant belly.

Claire knew she had been nothing but loved throughout her childhood, and that would have happened right from the start.

"She...really was wonderful, wasn't she?" she asked aloud.

Stewart chuckled – it was a quiet noise; low and deep in his chest.

"Indeed she was. And she gave me the most wonderful children," he reached up and kissed her forehead, before releasing her with a stroke of her upper arms. "One of which I must unfortunately be leaving soon in order to get these boxes to market. Come, help me load them onto the cart."

She did so without protest, but she was aware he had intentionally changed the subject. She wasn't going to mention this or hold it over his head – Claire knew her father well enough to realise when he was overwhelmed, and talking about her mother usually made him feel exactly that way.

Between the two of them, they managed to load all of Stewart's creations onto the cart in only twenty minutes, so while her father prepared their horse for the trip, Claire prepared him a small bag with food for the way.

"So, what can I bring you from the market, my child?" Stewart asked as he stepped onto the cart and took a hold of the reins.

"A rose," she replied without hesitation, handing small bag with food to her father.

"You ask for that every year," he smiled down at her, a strange (if melancholy) glint in his eyes.

"And every year you bring it," his child offered, giving him a smile of her own.

"You have my word, then."

And he meant it. He wouldn't fail her. Not to his Claire.

He leaned down to kiss the crown of her head one more time before snapping the reins and taking off towards Paris.

Claire sighed, her gaze focused on the shrinking silhouette of her father getting lost beyond the horizon. The sun was setting, so the sky was painted in a sort of reddish hue and Claire took a moment to just enjoy the sight. She loved sunsets… there was something magical to them.

“It is beautif-”

"Claire!" Chandler's voice drifted to her, interrupting her spoken thought and making her cringe.

 _Damn_...why did he have to appear every time she was starting to enjoy herself? Couldn't this boorish oaf understand what "no" meant?

Clearly not, if the sight of him walking up towards the house, dressed in his finest clothes, boots and coat and carrying...a bunch of flowers...was anything to go by. She rolled her eyes, but that either didn't register to him or he purposefully ignored it. And it was hard to tell which was worse. She didn't want to be ruder than necessary, but she was so close to telling him simply to give up. It wasn't going to happen, no matter how much he wanted it to!

But it was too late to simply close the door in his face – he wouldn't leave if he knew she was right there. So instead she folded her arms and stood in the middle of the doorway, making sure he wasn't able to cross the threshold as he approached.

"What do you want, Chandler?" she asked, frustration clear in her tone. "I told you not to come here tonight."

She really wanted to add "or ever", but just talking about their earlier conversation might resonate more.

Again, he seemed unfazed by her frustration or even by the fact that she had yet again said that she didn't want him there. He kept his stupid smile in place as crossed her beautiful vegetable garden, ruining her lettuce plants by mindlessly stepping on them.

"Oh, it's just that I saw your father leaving and I figured that you might want some company," he said, offering her the flowers, which she didn't take.

"Thank you, Chandler, but no," she said, retreating into the house. "I don't need nor want any company."

Much to her annoyance, Chandler prevented her from closing the door by sticking his foot in the doorframe.

"Claire, please, give me a chance," he insisted, "I have changed."

C.C. continued to try and push the door close, her displeasure clear on her features.

"Chandler, we could never make each other happy, no one changes that much," the blonde spat.

Her words seemed to have touched something in him, for he stopped struggling to open the door and merely looked at her. There was something in his eyes that was deeply unsettling – cruel, even – and for the first time, Clair felt... _unsafe_.

"Claire, do you know what happens to spinsters in this village after their fathers die?" he said in a soft, malicious voice, and gestured at a poor woman begging for coins in the street.

Claire had seen her before. Her name was Sarah and she was a lovely woman who was treated unkindly by the townsfolk. Claire always made sure to give her food and clothes – she’d even offered her shelter on cold winter nights, but Sarah had never accepted to stay.

"They beg for scraps, like poor Sarah," he continued. He stepped back, and for an instant both maiden and hunter stared at each other. "This is our world, Claire. For simple folk like us, it doesn't get any better."

Claire could feel the anger boiling inside her – she was smouldering with indignation and rage, and this idiot's words had struck the flint inside her. Who did he think he was to make that kind of judgement about her? With what authority?! Her social standing had nothing to do with her value as a person, and she certainly wasn’t going to be cajoled into marrying a brute for the sake of convenience or to comply with social expectations!

"I may be a farm girl, Chandler,” C.C. snarled, “but I am not simple. And I am never going to marry you!”

Taking advantage of the fact that he'd stepped back enough to take his foot out of the doorway, she slammed it shut. She didn't move to the window to check if he had gone – it was likely he'd remain there a while. Instead, she went to her own room, again rolling her eyes in any vain hope that it would quell her annoyance.

It wasn't enough, and she tossed her book onto her bed.

"Can you imagine!" she scoffed to herself, moving to her wardrobe to open it and start going through her clothes angrily. "Me, the wife of that boorish, brainless oaf...!"

She pulled out a scarf, studying it.

" _Madame Graves_ ," she said disgustedly, before becoming mocking as she put the garment over her head like a headscarf, twirling this way and that in her mirror. "Oh, can't you just see it now? Madame Graves, _Chandler Graves' little wife_...!"

With a loud cry of "ugh!" she threw the scarf back into the wardrobe and slammed the doors.

 _Madame Graves_. That would never be her, no sir.

She wanted far more than that. She wanted adventure, and someone who understood that. She wanted to go places and see things, not be stuck in the provincial life she found herself in!

She stalked back to her bed, snatched up the book, and flung herself onto the mattress, opening it up and starting to read.

She wanted far more than everyone else seemed to have planned for her.

 

* * *

 

 "It's alright, Philippe, it's alright," Stewart murmured to his horse, who was just as unsure of the path they'd taken as his owner was. They'd mistakenly taken a detour, and Stewart was struggling to find the way back to the main road. Night had already fallen, and everything around him was pitch-dark. The road he'd ventured into seemed to be endless and, despite being in the warm months of June, there was a chill in the air that was making him shiver.

The road ahead seemed as deserted and gloomy as the woods that it crossed, and to make matter worse, there was a storm coming. He could hear it in the distance...

It wasn't long until Stewart found himself in front of a forked trail. There was an old oak tree in between the two paths; one of them looked clearer and more secure, whereas the other seemed to go deeper into the forest and it was lined with crooked trees and branches.

"Hm... yes, we can go that way," Stewart spoke mostly to himself, pulling the reins across Philippe's neck and steering to the left, towards the more inviting path.

Just as the horse began to trot, however, a sudden lighting struck the tree, causing one of its branches to fall and cover the entrance to the leftward path.

Now there was no choice but to go down the other one...

He wasn't exactly sure about it, but he needed to get to the market, both to sell his products and to get a rose for his beloved Claire.

"Oh well," he shrugged and steered to the right. "One path closes, another one opens."

The horse neighed in protest, but he obeyed his master, nonetheless. As they rode deeper and deeper into the woods, the cold became impossible to ignore, and Philippe was eventually startled when his hoofs found themselves buried underneath something whitish and cold.

"It's alright, boy," Stewart soothed him. "It is just a bit of snow in... _June_?!"

But it couldn't be! It was impossible, surely? Perhaps the sun had yet to reach the forest floor here, and thaw the rest of the winter away?

 _Unlikely_ , but it was what he was going to keep telling himself, if only to remain composed.

Taking in a deep breath, he took a firm hold of Philippe's reins, back in control.

"Mind your step, it's slippery," he murmured, patting the horse's neck.

They were going to get through this. It had to join back up to the other pathway sooner or later.

The minutes passed like hours as they wandered ever deeper into the woods. Stewart had no way of telling whether it was day or night, or if the darkness ahead was merely trees and foliage. But he did get the feeling that he was being watched.

It didn't let up the further they went – even the slightest snapping of branches around him made Stewart jolt, and all he could think of was getting through. Getting to the market, and of buying a rose for his Claire...

All he had in the world...

Since his wife's death, Claire had become his _raison d’être_ – she gave purpose to his life. She was not only beautiful on the outside, but on the inside as well. And even if she had a penchant for delivering sarcastic remarks, she was a kindly spirit and a dutiful daughter who helped him out with everything she could.

She deserved a lot more than he could give her, but there weren’t many opportunities in their village. He knew that she was unhappy in the village – God knows he disliked it as well – but going back to Paris was completely out of the question. Villeneuve, unlike Paris, was safe, and if there was one thing that he was not willing to risk, it was his daughter’s safety. He was going to protect her, no matter the cost. He wasn’t going to fail her like he’d failed his beautiful wife…

He missed her dearly, and even if nearly sixteen years had gone past since her passing, he still couldn’t bring himself to mention her name. It was too painful…

Berenice had been the love of his life, and having lost her so soon was still an open wound. He remembered nearly giving in to despair when the doctor had told him that there was nothing else to do. That there was no more hope. He hadn’t wanted to accept it, but he couldn’t simply turn a blind eye to the fact that his wife was dying. Seeing her lying on a bed, agonising and in pain, had shattered him – he’d simply fallen to pieces. There had been no trace of the young and lively woman he’d married. He remembered being sat by her side, promising that he would take care of their girls, promising that everything would be all right.

But she’d known that things weren’t going to be all right. She’d known she was dying.

Berenice’s last wish was for them to leave Paris – to run away from the plague – so Stewart had taken the all money that he had in the house, and he and his family had taken off for the countryside. They’d taken only the essential when they’d left their fortune and their life in Paris behind. Claire was five years old at the time, while his eldest, Danielle, was ten years old.

Once in the village, he had not sought to remarry. He knew no one would be able to replace Berenice. Still, there were some nights when the loneliness got the best of him and he allowed himself to long for the feeling of his wife’s body against his, even if he knew longing wouldn’t bring his wife back.  

He didn’t know why he was feeling so melancholy – maybe the cause was the loneliness of the woods which reminded him of the loneliness in his heart and in his bed. A cruel reminder of the void left by Beatrice's untimely death.

"I wish you were here, my love," he murmured, glancing at his wedding band, which he’d never taken off. "Here with me, and with our Claire..."

The answer to his spoken thought, however, was a menacing growl and the sound of paws   impacting against the snow.

_Wolves!_

A pack of them, surrounding both him and Philippe.

Philippe couldn't be calmed then – not by his words, not when confronted with advancing predators, snarling and snapping. The horse reared in fright, and took off into the forest. Stewart clung on desperately, just about managing to steer the reins enough to keep them from becoming completely lost in the forest and sticking to the path. No matter how much it seemed like a bad idea now.

"Go, go, Philippe!" he urged, checking behind him momentarily. The wolves had given chase. "Come on! We can outrun them, old friend!"

He didn't know if the horse was listening, or could even understand, but Philippe did seem to start hurrying even faster. Stewart could still hear the wolves behind – further away, but still there. But there seemed to be something ahead, along the path, over a bridge.

It looked like...the walls of a castle?

A castle meant shelter. And people, who could give directions!

They were safe if they could get there!

He flicked the reins encouragingly, "Come on, Philippe! Go! Go, go!"

Miraculously, the horse did as he was told, and ran towards the castle gate. Stewart checked over his shoulder, watching as the wolves seemed to give up the chase as they went over the bridge, and crossed into the courtyard...

There weren't many lights coming from inside the castle, and oddly enough, it seemed deserted. There were no guards in sight nor there were any servants in the premises, which was unusual judging by the impressive size of the palace. When he got to the courtyard, he spotted a pen and two large containers filled with hay and water just a few meters ahead of him, so he guided his tired horse to them and dismounted. It was a blessing that he'd managed to undo Philippe from the cart, for if not the wolves would have gotten to them if Philippe had remained attached to it.  

"You are all set, my old friend," he murmured, patting the horse's neck. "You stay here while I go pay my respects to our unwitting host, whoever that may be."

"Thank you," said a voice, making Stewart jump.

The inventor looked around frantically, hoping to find the source of the voice, but the courtyard was just as deserted as when he'd entered.

"Hello?" he called out, but no one answered.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small shadow moving – dashing was more the word – towards the castle's doors, which appeared to have opened on their own... 

Feeling unsure but at the same time being aware that he needed refuge, Stewart walked over to the doors, praying for there being someone in the castle who would be able to help him.

"Hello?" he called again, stepping into what appeared to once have been a lavish and luxurious castle; now it looked run down and neglected, not to mention the eerie and deeply unsettling aura that seemed to float around him. The only light that could be seen came from the embers in fireplace, which was flanked on each side by a plush armchair. Despite the obvious signs that someone lived there, the place practically screamed abandonment. It was spiderwebs galore inside – they were everywhere, festooning the dusty furniture and the tall marble walls, and hanging from the unlit chandeliers.

Figuring he had no other choice but to venture forward, Stewart gave a few paces, gulped and spoke: "Sorry to intrude, I'm just a traveller, seeking shelter from the storm. Sorry to disturb you."

He waited a few moments, but again, there was no answer.

"Anyone home?" Anyone awake?"

_Silence._

" _He must have lost his way in the woods_!" he could have sworn a voice hissed.

Stewart spun on the spot towards the direction of the voice, but there was nothing there.

Nothing but a large mantle with a clock and a candelabra on it...

He turned back. It must have been coming from somewhere else.

" _Shut up, you idiot!"_

There it was again! Still from the same area!

He had to get another look. A closer one. Even if there really was no one there and he was just hearing things, his curiosity for all things mechanical was getting the better of him. And come closer he did, to pick the little timepiece up. The clock was exquisite in all its workings – as complex in its workings, he dared say, as a human body!

"Hm..." he mused aloud, eyes wandering over all the parts, from the face to the cogs. "Beautiful!"

Next it was the candelabra's turn to be examined. Again, it was as wonderfully and brilliantly made as the clock. Whomever had made all of this was a master craftsman of the highest order!

"Extraordinary," he replaced it back on the mantle, and turned away again.

And so, Stewart went back to admiring the upholstery and the different ornaments that lay in the room. Most of them looked ancient, but only a few of them had been crafted with as much detail as the clock and the candelabra.

 _"A man of taste,"_ one of the voices muttered.

 _"He was talking about me..."_ the other voice retorted, a venomous edge to his severe voice.

Stewart, now tired of the voices' games (and fearing that maybe it was the tiredness that was making him hear things), took a deep breath and continued his way without even looking in the direction of the voices.

"Well, wherever you are... I am just going to warm myself by the fire," the inventor announced and walked over to the fireplace. The flames were small, but that didn’t make them any less comforting; he could feel the cold slowly melting away from his body, and he allowed himself to briefly close his eyes. He only reopened them when he decided to take a seat on one of the comfortable armchairs. His body was aching from the long trip, so a short rest was in order. The peace was short lived, though, for he was disconcerted to find a seemingly fresh cup of tea lying on the coffee table by his side. How had it gotten there?! Had he nodded off and someone had left it there for when he’d woken up?  

This place was starting to put him on edge...

The teacup sat atop a matching saucer, and they’d also left a small cream jug, a covered sugar bowl and a slop bowl. He noticed that the small teacup was chipped, but obviating that it was delicate and incredibly beautiful. It appeared to be of the finest porcelain, and it had fine details in gold. The moment the smell of fine tea wafted into his nostrils, Stewart felt a wave of peace and comfort penetrating his body and seeping into his very soul – God knows he needed it after his ordeal!

Not being able to resist the temptation, he took a small sip and smiled contentedly to himself as the warm liquid made its way down his throat.

"Ah, that's much better..." he murmured, closing his eyes and resting against the back of the armchair.

" _Thank you!"_ a small voice replied. " _Oh! Yikes… Fran said I wasn't supposed to move, because it might be scary..."_

And he started, his eyes popping open as he leaped back in the chair some. That voice had come from right in front of him! But it couldn't have...the only thing he could see was the teacup...

The teacup, which in its gold leaf, appeared to have a tiny... _patterned...face_...?!

"Sorry," the cup murmured.

It took all his willpower for Stewart not to scream right then and there. Instead he swallowed, nodded stiffly, and assumed a smile.

"It's...it's alright," he said, rising shakily from his seat and settling the cup back on the table. "I, uh...I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, but...I really must be going!"

After giving a few uneven steps, something inside him clicked and he turned and ran, tripping over the leg of the chair but still managing to scramble away, speeding for the door he'd entered by. He couldn't think about anything else apart from getting out of there as soon as possible. He had no clue of what was going on, but whatever it was, it had no logical explanation and therefore he wanted nothing to do with it.

He thanked the heavens when he spotted his horse waiting for hem; it was ironic that the animal was a lot calmer than him. Well... he hadn't seen talking china, that was for certain!

"Come on, Philippe!" he nearly screamed as he hopped onto the saddle, "Let's go!"

Stewart gently kicked the horse's sides with his heels and Philippe immediately took off for the open gates, much to Stewart's relief. But just as he was about to leave the palace for good, something caught his eye – rosebushes! And the most beautiful rosebushes he’d ever seen at that. He knew he wouldn't be able to get to Paris in time, which meant he wouldn't be able to get a rose for Claire, and that was completely unacceptable in his eyes.

"Roses! I promised Claire a rose," he muttered to himself as he pulled the reins and jumped off the horse.

It would be just a moment, he though as he wandered over to the bushes. He’d take the rose and he'd be on his way home, back to safety and back to his child. One rose in particular stuck out – it had caught his eye almost immediately! It had the deepest red colour he’d ever seen, and it was practically devoid of thorns. He admired it for a second before breaking it off the bush.  

"There," he nodded in triumph, backing away to turn back towards Philippe.

But he never made it there, because a huge shadow fell over him and a deafening roar filled the night air, terrifying the horse into bolting.

Stewart couldn't stop himself from screaming this time.


End file.
